One of the last surviving stars of classic Hollywood has passed away: Mitzi Gaynor, the vibrant actress, singer and dancer who starred in South Pacific and other golden age musicals, has died at 93.
Gaynor’s managers managers Rene Reyes and Shane Rosamonda confirmed the news to AP, saying that the actress died of natural causes in Los Angeles.
“As we celebrate her legacy, we offer our thanks to her friends and fans and the countless audiences she entertained throughout her long life,” they said in a statement.
“Your love, support and appreciation meant so very much to her and was a sustaining gift in her life.”
Born September 4, 1931 in Chicago, Gaynor began singing and dancing from a young age and signed a contract with Twentieth Century Fox at 17. After making her debut in 1950’s My Blue Heaven, she quickly rose to become a star.
One of classic Hollywood’s biggest “triple threats,” Gaynor’s singing, dancing and acting talents, combined with her energy and charm, made her a big draw in many hit musical films of the era, and she co-starred with some of the biggest movie stars. Her memorable films include There’s No Business Like Show Business, Anything Goes, Bloodhounds of Broadway and Les Girls.
But Gaynor is best known for starring in the 1958 film South Pacific, the big-screen adaptation of the beloved Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.
In the lead role of Nellie Forbush, Gaynor performed classic numbers like “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair,” “A Cockeyed Optimist” and “A Wonderful Guy.” She received a Golden Globe nomination for her performance.
Gaynor made her last film appearance in 1963, but she reinvented herself as a live performer, to great success. Throughout the ’60s and ’70s, her act was a major draw in Las Vegas, and she had a series of lavishly produced television specials. She continued performing into her senior years.
Rest in peace to Mitzi Gaynor, one of the last surviving stars of golden age Hollywood who will always be remembered for her unforgettable performances in musicals like South Pacific.
Please share this story in memory of this show biz icon 
Buttons and Memories
I miss my mom. I used to push all the buttons just as she would walk down the aisle, a mischievous glint in my eye. Each time we visited the grocery store, I’d dash ahead, my small fingers dancing over the colorful buttons of the self-checkout machine. With each beep, she’d turn around, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You little rascal! One day, you’re going to break it!” she’d say, shaking her head, but her smile would give her away. Those moments were filled with laughter and light, the kind of memories that could brighten even the dullest days.
Since her passing, the grocery store has become a hollow place for me. I walk through, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft whoosh, and I feel the weight of the emptiness settle in my chest. The shelves filled with brightly packaged goods seem to mock my solitude. I can still hear her voice, echoing in my mind, reminding me to pick up my favorite snacks or to try a new recipe. I wander through the aisles, my heart heavy, searching for a piece of her in every corner.
I remember how she would linger by the produce, inspecting the apples with care, always choosing the shiniest ones. “The best things in life are worth taking a moment to choose,” she would say, her hands gently brushing over the fruit. Now, I find myself standing there, staring at the apples, unable to choose. They all seem dull and lifeless without her touch.
The self-checkout machines are still there, their buttons waiting to be pressed, but they feel like a cruel reminder of what I’ve lost. I can’t bring myself to push them anymore. The last time I stood in front of one, the memories flooded back. I could almost hear her laughter, feel her presence beside me. But it was just a memory, fleeting and painful.
Every week, I return to the store, hoping that somehow it will feel different, that I’ll find a way to connect with her again. But the aisles remain unchanged, their fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a persistent reminder of my loneliness. I see other families laughing and chatting, and I feel like an outsider looking in on a world that no longer includes me.
One evening, as I walked past the cereal aisle, I spotted a box of her favorite brand. It was decorated with bright colors and cheerful characters, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my heart. I hesitated for a moment, then reached out and grabbed it, a sudden rush of nostalgia washing over me. I could almost see her standing beside me, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Let’s get it! We can make our special breakfast tomorrow!”
With the box cradled in my arms, I made my way to the checkout. I felt a warmth spreading through me, the kind of warmth that comes from cherished memories. But as I stood there, scanning the items and watching the screen flash numbers, I realized that I was alone. The laughter we shared, the spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen, all of it felt like a distant dream.
When I got home, I placed the box on the kitchen counter, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. I thought about making pancakes, just like we used to, the kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla and maple syrup. I reached for my phone to call her, to share the news, but my heart sank as reality set in. There would be no more calls, no more laughter echoing through the house.
That night, I sat in the dark, the box of cereal beside me, feeling the weight of my grief settle in. I poured myself a bowl, the sound of the cereal hitting the milk breaking the silence. As I took the first bite, tears streamed down my cheeks. Each crunch reminded me of the moments we had shared, and I felt an ache in my chest for the warmth of her presence.
“I miss you, Mom,” I whispered into the stillness of the room. “I wish I could press all the buttons just one more time, hear you laugh, feel your hand in mine.”
But the buttons would remain untouched, just as the aisles of the grocery store would remain silent, a reflection of the emptiness I felt inside. And in that moment, I realized that while the world continued to move forward, I would always carry her with me, a bittersweet reminder of the love that once filled my life.
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